Early in the morning, we headed to the airport. One last deep breath of Colorado’s crisp, light air filled my lungs, more than I expected, more than I knew I needed.
It was during our layover in Madrid that we realized this trip would be nothing like we had planned. In Israel, there’s a saying: “You can only plan the next hour.” This time, it couldn’t have been truer. While strolling the streets of Madrid, we received the news: Rotem’s uncle, Shai Ben Tal, had passed away suddenly. If you knew him, you’d probably say two things: he had terrible timing… and he had an extraordinary gift for connecting people. Across differences, across generations, across just about anything.
We were shocked. Heartbroken. Sad. And also deeply grateful that we were already on our way. When we arrived at the Shiva, it was immediately clear that he was still doing what he always did: bringing people together. The house was full. Full of stories, tears, reunions. Faces from every chapter of his life. Even in death, he was building bridges. Someone said it best: “He was the most alive person, even in death.”
Before I arrived in Colorado, I had participated in one of the Beit Midrash groups Shai was leading. I learned a lot from him, about Judaism, American Jewry, and what it means to be a bridge. One sentence echoes the most now, something he said to me as we said goodbye before I came to serve as a Shlicha: “Remember: it’s not about how brightly we shine. It’s about how we help others recognize their own light.” It got me thinking: What legacy do we leave behind? How do we live in a way that echoes long after we’re gone, or even when we’re just quietly watching from the sidelines?
This trip wasn’t easy. Israel is resilient. Life keeps going. The sun still shines… but it shines on a country that feels different now. There’s grief in the air. And yet, also grace. Israel exists in multiple dimensions at once. A layered reality. It’s a country constantly balancing the pull to return to routine, to spark joy, to create reasons to live fully, with the living memory of the past year and a half. A memory so vivid, it stretches time itself, no longer linear, but multi-dimensional.
My father’s heart breaks with what’s happening in Israel. But when he hugged my kids, his grandchildren, again after 20 months apart, his heart felt whole. I sat with my twin sister and spoke for hours about life, about choices, about the delicate architecture of relationships, not quite boundaries, but the thoughtful lines that shape us. The kind of conversations that make you remember who you are.
I walked the streets and saw pain. Not hidden. Not ignored. But held. Held in that uniquely Israeli way, unapologetically open. “We are hurting,” the streets seemed to say. “And we are still doing. Still living.”
I love the people of Israel. My people. Our people. And I hope, from Denver to the Negev, that we continue to define each other not by the darkness we’ve endured, or by the choices that sometimes feel worlds apart, but by the light we carry forward.
By the ways we choose to lift one another, and recognize each other’s light. Here and there.
Because that’s what it truly means to be Am Echad- one people.
Yours,
Nelly